


In 221 Words

by Spark_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love, M/M, Other, Platonic Love, sherlock drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spark_Writer/pseuds/Spark_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 221 word unrelated drabbles, in which I will try to capture the essence of Sherlock and John's friendship and life at 221B. Not as fluffy as one might think. :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Incidentally, this drabble is actually 231 words long, but I will do my best to end at 221 in the future. Thanks for reading and please tell me what you think! ;D

John awoke in the middle of the night, gripped with a bewildering desire for tea. He felt pleasantly delirious as he padded softly down the stairs, doubting that Sherlock was asleep, but not wanting to rouse him if he was. The flat was unusually still; there were no impatient violin melodies, no explosives, and no angry mutterings from Sherlock as he sought to solve a case. Everything was magnificently still. John moved quietly into the dark kitchen and flicked the overhead light on, bathing the steel appliances in a soft florescent glow. He filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, humming under his breath. As he turned from the stove in search of sugar cubes, he saw something beautiful.

There, sprawled gracefully on the sofa, was Sherlock. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, the light from the kitchen catching his hair and turning it to silver. John forgot his tea and stepped into the dark sitting room, chest inexplicably tight. Sherlock hadn't removed his coat, so the hem drooped over the sofa's edge and flirted with the floor. He looked so quiet, so wonderfully young. John felt equally intrusive and privileged to witness Sherlock in his unconscious moments, for the sheer sight of the sleeping detective sent hot little strokes of affection skittering through his body.

The kettle whistled. John left Sherlock to his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, Sherlock being a good drawer is head cannon for me. :) Please review!

John had grown accustomed to Sherlock's frequent boredom, but he still could not grasp why the good detective would find a triple murder involving missing organs boring. This particular case had come to their attention that morning; Sherlock had been summoned to the crime scene to help solve the baffling case. Yet now, while everyone else rushed frantically about collecting samples of bodily fluids, Sherlock was pulling a small notepad from his capacious coat pocket and writing something in it.

John joined him.

"Bored," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this is the least boring situation one could possibly find themselves in."

"Oneself," corrected Sherlock. "And you're wrong, the killer knows exactly what happened, therefore he or she is the least bored of all of us."

John heaved a sigh, and peered at Sherlock's notebook with frank surprise. "Are you drawing?"

A blush flared on Sherlock's cheeks and he closed the book with a snap.

"Wait!" John tugged it from the detective's hand. He flipped through the ink-laced pages until he found the last drawing. It was decidedly un-Sherlocky.

Sherlock had drawn an elaborate, deeply rooted tree, which seemed to be an artful hybrid of plant and human. Veins twisted up the tree's limbs and John saw that one of them had been severed; it bled drops of black blood.

The image stole John's breath away. "Shit," he said softly.

"What?"

"If I had my mobile on me, I could take a bloody picture."

"Have it," said Sherlock, casually tearing the page and handing it over.

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"You could have told me you were an artist."

"I'm not."

"You're very good."

"John, I'm not!"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Shut up, I'm giving you a compliment.

"Oh good god, I knew you would try to mollify me with one of those—one of your—"

"Manners?"

"Well…thank you. I suppose."

"Atta boy."


End file.
